“God Bless Mr. Trump”

Chapter Three

THE ABYSS

Charisma Sinclair slows to a walk, chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. Sweat cools against her skin as she pulls off her sunglasses and surveys the neighborhood she’s spent years pretending to belong in. Towering, architecturally ostentatious estates sprawl across manicured lawns, their owners ensconced in wealth so old it no longer recognizes itself as privilege. Every driveway hosts the latest autonomous vehicles, every home a monument to someone’s family legacy. She wonders, not for the first time, if they even know what it’s like to build something from nothing.

Then there’s hers—a modest 3-D printed unit tucked at the edge of the community, an anomaly in this world of opulence. A testament not to lineage but to raw ingenuity, to a life built on intellect and innovation rather than inheritance. She prefers it that way. Or at least she did, until now. One step inside her home and she notices it. An envelope—thick, cream-colored, embossed with an insignia she doesn’t immediately recognize—placed dead center on her kitchen island, like a trap laid in waiting. Not slid under the door. Not dropped in the mail. Delivered.

By whom? And how?

A sharp tension grips her ribs, compressing her post-run exhilaration into something cold and tight. She knows, with the kind of premonition that doesn’t require opening it, that nothing inside that envelope is good. She stares at it in her hands as if it were a relic from an extinct world. It’s thick, almost ceremonial, a weight that doesn’t belong in 2049. Who even sends letters anymore? Everything important—contracts, legal notices, corporate negotiations—flows through encrypted quantum channels—secured, documented, permanent. Especially with the recent advent of the retinal Leaf. But this . . . this is different. Tactile. Deliberate.

A definitive power play.

She runs her fingers along the embossed insignia, her pulse quickening as recognition sets in. A law firm—one of the big ones, the kind that deals in multibillion-dollar lawsuits and existential corporate warfare. A sense of wrongness creeps over her, an icy knot forming in her stomach. She inhales sharply, tries to center herself. No assumptions, react later, she tells herself.

Then she sees it. Cease and desist. The words sever all ties with Loopd>In leap out at her like a physical attack. A rush of adrenaline spikes through her veins, heat rising to her cheeks, her chest tightening as if the air itself is turning against her.

No. No.

Her knees threaten to buckle, but she steadies herself against the cold, polished edge of her kitchen island. The document is dense, packed with legal jargon designed to overwhelm, but the meaning is crystal clear—She has been exiled from her own creation.

The next words make her stomach lurch: Any attempt to assert intellectual ownership, interfere with ongoing operations, or communicate with active stakeholders will result in immediate legal recourse, including but not limited to financial restitution, punitive damages, and permanent injunctions.

It reads less like a warning and more like a death sentence. Her vision blurs, nausea creeping up her throat. She blinks rapidly, forces herself to read it again, as if a second pass might soften the brutality of it. But it doesn’t. Loopd>In is no longer hers.

She can’t breathe. How? Why? She forces her mind to move, to untangle the impossibility of it. This can’t be legal. Her name is on the patents. Her work is written into its very DNA. But there, at the bottom of the page, is the signature that makes her blood run cold.

Samantha Ravensby.

It’s a clean, bold stroke and unmistakable in its finality. The betrayal flares like a wound ripped open mid-healing. Charisma moves before she can think. Her legs propel her forward, instinctive, desperate, her body seeking proof—real proof—that this isn’t happening. She practically throws herself into her office chair, jabbing the power button on her console. The machine comes to life, screens blinking awake, their cold glow illuminating the panic etched across her face. Her hands slam against the keyboard. Fingers fly, keystrokes sharp and erratic, pounding out the login sequence she’s typed a thousand times before. But now, the screen hesitates, lagging, buffering longer than usual. Each passing second stretches unbearably.

Then—ACCESS DENIED.

The phrase blinks at her in bold red letters. She blinks back, uncomprehending. Her hands freeze over the keyboard.

No. She tries again, typing with deliberate, forceful precision. Charisma.Sinclair_Admin. Enter. ACCESS DENIED.

Her breath shudders in her chest. Her cursor hovers over the recovery options. She tries her financial accounts next, hands shaking as she swipes through the verification process.

Account Locked.

She grips the desk. The screen seems to shrink, to loom, to suck the oxygen from the room. A fresh wave of nausea rolls through her. Every piece of her existence is being erased in real time. She swipes to her personal development files. The blue progress wheel spins. And spins. And spins.

Then—FILE NOT FOUND.

Gone. Her mind fractures into static. This isn’t real. This can’t be real. But it is. The nausea surges. She shoves back from the desk, stumbling to her feet, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Her body moves on instinct, seeking an anchor, anything to keep her from spiraling. But there’s nothing. Just the deafening silence of a life that has been stolen from under her.

Charisma steps away from everything and closes her eyes, standing in the middle of the kitchen, trying her best to summon all those lessons from yesteryear. Mindfulness. Deep recollection. Cadenced and focused breathing. She tries to summon something from her interactions with Samantha over the past months that would lead to this. Unreturned phone calls. Body language in the office and boardroom. Passing comments, tones in correspondence. Nothing overt, but there was subtlety everywhere, wasn’t there? She wasn’t invited to meet the HyperLoop team following their proposal. She didn’t think much of it at the time, but now, it certainly appears to be a bellwether.

She closes her eyes and focuses on the days leading up to this moment. She sees it clearly. This wasn’t a fracture—it was a controlled demolition. A calculated move, made by someone who was planning for a long time. Samantha wasn’t just taking Loopd>In. She was erasing Charisma from it. A quiet sob escapes her throat before she can stop it. She presses a fist to her mouth, desperate to contain the sound, but the tears come anyway. Hot, silent, furious tears.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Loopd>In was her ticket out. From her mother’s shadow. Out of the suffocating circles of influence that dictated who belonged and who was merely tolerated. She built something real. Something visionary. And now, in the span of a single evening, it’s taken from her like a child ripped from its mother’s arms.

Her gaze moves to the letter still clenched in her shaking hands. The paper crinkles slightly under her tightening grip. It’s nothing more than a formality—a taunt, wrapped in legal jargon, a polite way of saying, Stay down. Don’t fight. It’s over.

Samantha knew exactly what she was doing. Charisma had nothing left to fight with. The walls of her home inch closer, the air suddenly thick and oppressive. For a space designed with openness in mind, it now feels cramped. The living room—once her sanctuary of solitude—seems almost predatory. The glass coffee table at its center, normally pristine and uncluttered, now feels sterile, an empty reflection of herself. Two charcoal-gray sofas sit across from each other like silent witnesses to her unraveling, their cool, modern form mocking her. The recessed lighting, always set to a warm, amber glow that match her eyes, now casts long, sharp shadows against the walls, deepening the hollowness in her chest.

She turns toward the sliding glass door, her gaze drifting past the transparent pane to the only thing in her world that still feels untouched—her garden. Beyond the threshold, native irises and California poppies sway in the night breeze, their soft hues muted by the dim moonlight. The manicured hedges stand like silent sentinels, framing chaotic bursts of color. There was harmony here once. A balance between wild growth and cultivated beauty.

This is where she reads. Where she problem-solved in the twilight hours as Loopd>In went from a concept in her mind to becoming reality. Where she sits beneath the open sky, allowing her mind to drift up to the stars. She spends countless nights here, nestles into the worn Adirondack chair, letting the vastness of the cosmos comfort her. She feels closest to her truest self here, untethered, limitless.

It was the Time & Space program that shaped her more than anything else—opened her eyes to the incomprehensible scale of the universe. It showed her a perspective beyond the petty battles of power and control, gave her a sense of wonder that no material success could replicate. She recalls the teacher who first introduced her to the world of the cosmos, Mr. Cody. What would he tell her if he were sitting with her tonight? Look up to the stars and not down at your feet, his most oft-used maxim. She has mixed feelings and emotions about going any further down this path. Then she recalls what spawned from that national program’s wake. The UnPlugger movement that emerged resonated with her deeply, the idea that disconnecting from the digital noise meant reconnecting with something real. Nature and the tangible world. Together, they were the first steps toward her creation, no, not creation, but the beautiful blend of life and mind sciences that became Loopd>In.

Now, she feels disconnected from everything. She forces herself upright, gripping the counter for balance. The wine rack catches her eye.

Not yet.

Her hands twitch, muscles tightening in protest. She stares at the bottle of Pinot Noir nestled between two others. Her old companion. The one that smooths the edges when they get too sharp. She doesn’t even bother with a glass. The bottle is open in seconds, the deep crimson liquid hitting her tongue before she has time to think about it. One gulp. Then another. The warmth spreads through her chest, but it doesn’t dull the ache. If anything, it makes it sharper—a cruel reminder that there’s no real escape.

Her stomach churns in rebellion. She barely makes it to the bathroom before it all comes back up. Collapsing onto the floor, forehead pressed against the cool tile, she breathes raggedly. Pathetic. Even her body is rejecting her now. With a weak, shaking hand, she reaches for the worn dark green blanket draped over the armrest near the kitchen. She pulls it over her shoulders like armor, curling into herself on the living room couch.

Sleep. Just sleep.

The tears still come, but she’s too exhausted to fight them anymore. The weight of everything presses her deeper into the cushions, the quiet rush of the city outside a dull backdrop to her own unraveling.

Tomorrow, she’ll still be ruined. Tomorrow, she’ll still have nothing. Tomorrow, she won’t be able to avoid the truth.

But tonight? Tonight, she lets herself break and fall into the abyss.